neoplasia
by psquare
Summary: Tag to 9.01. Everything has consequences. Sam was, and Sam... wasn't.


Tag to _Supernatural _9.01! Also, first completed fic in over a year. _Very_ rusty. And it shows.

**Summary:** Sam was, and Sam… wasn't.

**Words:** ~1,000

**Warnings: SPOILERS** for 9.01: _I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here_, metaphor-abuse, and uh… that's it, really. Also a lot of this is from Ezekiel's PoV, so.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

**_neoplasia_**

Healing Sam Winchester is a lot more difficult than he'd anticipated.

Ezekiel is used to having all of Heaven's infinite power by his side. Healing is nothing more than a shift of intent, willing tendons and muscles and vessels to knit themselves back together, trusting that the soul, the distilled, ineffable essence of a human being, can do the rest. He has never pretended that he is greater than the sum of his parts—rebuilding somebody from the ground-up is utterly beyond him.

And yet, for Sam Winchester—

His soul is scarred and pockmarked, struggling to fill the confines of that large, failing body. Possession of any kind leaves behind its imprint on the body, but Ezekiel is astonished at the fingerprints he finds—Lucifer, he knows, but not just him; demons, Leviathans, even Death himself. These brands are like scars—keloids that have grown and mutated and taken over everything Sam _is_. Sam's mind is even more frightening to behold—full of shards from broken barriers and viscous strands of interconnected memories hanging like spider-webs. It is chaos.

Sam Winchester's body, mind, and soul clearly haven't been his in a long, long time—ravaged and broken and rebuilt over and over again, he is fractured almost beyond repair. Ezekiel tries not to judge, but he thinks he respects Sam's decision to finally leave this existence that was never really his. He has been spent and used in every which way possible; what more does Sam have to give?

Only Dean knows the answer to that question. And for Dean, Ezekiel is willing to try.

(the rawness of dean's desperation is too close to his to ignore; it is so much easier to ignore the confused cries of a hundred thousand angels screaming in his head this way)

Ezekiel doesn't know where to _begin_—for the first time in millennia, he feels uncertainty, even despair. It takes centuries of practice to successfully heal and regenerate, leave alone as effortlessly as he once could. Every part, every cell of the human body has _so much_—so much power, so much information, so much that can go terribly, terribly wrong. Even a single error while transcribing can lead to dire consequences.

Sam's body has been rebuilt so many times. His cells have accrued too many mistakes. Already Ezekiel can see Sam's body start to turn against him in a much more insidious way—turning into a monster in a very biological sense, ready to eat him from the inside-out.

What do you do when the very act of healing can kill?

Ezekiel tells Dean he needs time to do this right (as he walks stiff-legged and rigid—Sam's body is so much taller and _angular_ than he is used to), then buries himself as deep as he can. He lets Sam's conscious float to the surface as he begins to slowly, meticulously, rewrite everything that is Sam Winchester.

He shuts his mind to the cries of his siblings and the pain of being forcibly evicted from his own home; he has found _purpose_.

* * *

Sam... was.

Sam talked; he spoke of great plans and hope and _work to do_, and Dean listened, clinging to every word like he'd never hear them again, even as they made his stomach churn.

Sam hunted; he moved with fluidity that Dean hadn't seen from him in years, body too worn down from a lifetime on the road and alcohol as a primary mode of sustenance. He was a hulking, comforting presence by Dean, sure and purposeful. Dean hoped and rejoiced and pretended that he didn't see a faint glow from behind Sam's eyes every now and then, or light leaking from his pores and colouring every slow exhale when he was tired.

Sam read; he burned through books in the bunker like he was reading them all again for the first time. His meticulously catalogued system was in complete disarray as he would jump from subject to subject, pulling books off the shelves and scattering them all over the table, opening them at random pages, reading, reading, reading. Dean had learnt the hard away not to talk to Sam when he was like this—when Sam would look at him like he couldn't recognise him, like Dean didn't exist.

Sam laughed; not just the usual throaty chuckle, but actual _laughter_, with his head thrown back and shoulders shaking with mirth. It didn't take much to trigger him—jokes that would've only previously earned Dean an eye-roll at best, corny movies, flirty women. And each time, Dean would watch, and Dean would wonder.

Sam slept; he had always been a restless sleeper, sprawled across the bed with blankets tangled in his legs, but nowadays he was perfectly still—on his back, arms by his side, chest raising and falling slowly. Dean watched and waited, but Sam didn't wake up from nightmares anymore; didn't wake up until the morning sun slanted in through the curtains and Dean was still sitting on the other bed, red-eyed and staring.

Sam dreamed; Dean prayed.

Dean didn't talk, or hunt, or read, or laugh, or sleep, or dream. Dean lived; he lived in fear as he watched Sam flicker in and out and live life like filling a checklist; he lived and loved and hated and waited for the day he could finally have his brother back with no caveats, even as the sure knowledge that that would never happen crushed him.

Sam was, and Sam… wasn't.

**_Finis_**


End file.
